


Journey's End

by mydogwatson



Series: DIALOGUES 2 [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-04
Updated: 2014-05-04
Packaged: 2018-01-21 21:36:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1564913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mydogwatson/pseuds/mydogwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock are together again.  At last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Journey's End

**Author's Note:**

> Hi, folks. This story was written especially for those of you who asked so nicely to see Sherlock and John together in Dialogues 2. Since that wouldn't fit with the structure of the series, I wrote this little postscript. It would fit between Like Life, Like Death and Where We Love. Hope you like it. I managed to get it done in the midst of my prep for my trip to London, on which I depart in just a few hours.
> 
> Still time to meet me for a pint!

Journeys end in lovers  
meeting.

-Shakespeare

 

Sherlock kept one hand tucked into his coat pocket, slender fingers wrapped firmly around his phone. 

A talisman, perhaps, though he was generally scornful of such ideas.

As a tool, it was, at the moment, useless because the mobile wasn’t even switched on. A large and peremptory sign at the hospital’s entrance had ordered him to make sure that it was turned off. Of course, generally, he was also scornful of petty rules like that and even took a certain delight in flaunting them.

But not on this night.

All that mattered tonight was that in just a few moments, he would be seeing John Watson for the first time in far too long. And while Sherlock Holmes had never been one who believed in---or even gave any thought to---miracles, it seemed that he was currently somewhat more ambivalent on the matter.

Because, after believing for so long that it would never happen, he was going to see John again.

John. Who loved him.

*

The fog was lifting slowly, which did not surprise him, because he was a bloody doctor, after all. He knew how these things went.

Various drugs were dripping into his body and seemed to be doing a fairly good job of controlling the pain, which was for the best, but at the same time they also left him feeling slow and heavy.

Despite his treacle-like thought process, John was vaguely aware that there was something---and it seemed like something quite important---niggling at his mind. He blinked up at an interesting crack in the old plaster ceiling; it rather looked like the Nile, he mused, although he also realised that he had absolutely no idea what the Nile actually looked like.

And then it hit him.

Sherlock.

He remembered the brief phone conversation they’d had just before his surgery. A conversation in which he had finally proclaimed his feelings---no, this was not a time for euphemisms---his love for Sherlock. And Sherlock said he loved him in return. Sherlock was coming to see him.

Sherlock loved him.

John only hoped that the heart monitor reading did not start jumping around the way his actual heart was currently doing. Doctor Watson, he told himself firmly, hearts do not jump about. As far as he knew, at least, but then he’d been at war and was a bit behind on his journals.

Sherlock was coming to see him.

And Sherlock loved him.

John realised that it was very possible he might be repeating himself.

Then John thought that perhaps he giggled just a bit, but it was possible the noise he made did not sound much like a giggle, because the nurse [who had appeared out of nowhere] frowned at him as she checked the monitors. He settled back against the pillow and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

“How are you feeling, Captain Watson?” she asked.

He thought about it. “I feel…fine,” he said then. Which was true, as far as it went. If he started telling her about the rest of it, that his heart was leaping around in his chest and that he felt like laughing from pure joy, she would probably fetch the doctor. Or lower the drug dosage. “Really,” he said. “Fine.”

She patted his arm absently and left the room.

John didn’t mean to sleep again, but the darkness slipped over him anyway.

*

Sherlock was standing in the corridor, resting a hand against the door, but not pushing it open yet. He wondered why anyone would have chosen that particular shade of sickly green paint.

Irrelevant. Nothing mattered now but the man on the other side of the door.

Sherlock felt as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, deciding whether or not to jump off. To throw himself into the unknown.

But that didn’t seem quite right either, because John was not Unknown. John was at the very core of Sherlock’s being and always had been.

Sherlock still didn’t go into the room. Instead, he remembered being six years old and feeling astounded when a short blond boy in a dreadful jumper walked up to him on his first day in the new class. “Hello,” the boy said, one hand extended. “My name is John Watson.”

No one else had spoken to him or even, really, looked at him, except to wonder what he was doing in their class of eight-year-olds. It took a moment before Sherlock thought to put out his own hand. They shook solemnly. And the bond was forged at that moment, although it had been a long and excessively rocky path they had travelled since. Only to arrive here.

Now all he had to do was push open the door and he would be able to see John.

So he did.

John was sleeping. Well, of course he was. The man had been shot and he’d flown a very long way and then he’d had major surgery. He needed to sleep, so Sherlock did not allow himself to feel slighted. At least, this gave him the chance to take a good look at John.

He looked older, of course, but even more so than he should have. Well, that was no doubt down to the wound and the surgery. There were new lines in his face. Sherlock lifted a hand and gently pushed the slightly damp hair from John’s forehead, letting his hand rest there lightly. He checked the monitors, the drug levels, the bandaging that covered his shoulder and part of his chest. He listened to John’s breathing.

After a moment, he carefully lifted and moved the lone chair to the bedside and sat down. Without really planning to, he bent and rested his head on the mattress beside John. It was startling to realise how comforting he found it to be so close. 

It took him longer than it should have to realise that he was being watched. He lifted his head a little and met John’s eyes, then gave a soft, fragile sigh. “John,” he said.

“Sherlock,” came the whispered reply.

Sherlock straightened.

Although John looked only half-awake his gaze surveyed Sherlock carefully. It was a look composed equally of doctor, friend, and something else that Sherlock was not sure he was ready yet to label. “You look well,” John said finally.

“I’m clean.”

“You said.”

“Did you believe me?” The question was asked without hostility.

“I always believe you, Sherlock.”

Sherlock tested a smirk. “You’re an idiot.”

John smiled at him. Then he shifted slightly.

It reminded Sherlock that the other man had just come through some serious surgery. “Are you in pain?” he asked. “Do you need anything?”

There was a plastic cup filled with ice on the bedside table and John glanced at it. Sherlock picked up the cup, took out a piece of ice, and slipped it into John’s mouth. John sucked on it for a moment before speaking. “Yes, I am in some pain, but not unbearably so.” He paused. “And, you know, I think I have everything I need now.”

Sherlock was rarely confused, but right then he didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, and that uncertainty reminded of him of his days on drugs and not in a good way. To give himself a moment, he frowned at the monitors, but everything looked good, despite the wires attached to the patient. “I wish I could hug you,” were the rather surprising words that came out of his mouth.

John’s lips twitched just a little, although it wasn’t actually a smile. “You could kiss me,” he suggested quietly.

Sherlock blinked at him. “Oh,” he said. He stood and bent over the bed, for the first time touching his lips to John’s. They felt slightly chapped and cold from the ice. Not wanting to impose more than was wanted, he began to pull away.

John managed to move his free hand just enough so that he could press his palm to Sherlock’s cheek. They kissed again. When it ended, Sherlock perched very carefully on the edge of the mattress. John settled back, looking tired again. “Talk to me.”

“About what?”

“Doesn’t matter. What are you doing now?”

Sherlock knew that a certain pride came into his voice as he replied, “I’m a consulting detective.”

“What’s that?”

“When the police are out of the depth, which is always, they come to me.”

“Really? I never heard of that.”

“I invented the job.”

John nodded carefully. “I bet you’re brilliant at it.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes. Although the police make it difficult. Some of them won’t work with me.”

“Idiots,” John murmured.

Sherlock beamed at him, then had a brilliant idea. “You could work with me.”

“I’m a doctor,” John sleepily reminded him.

“Which is why you’ll be useful. I have a flat for us,” he added. “We’ll move in as soon as you leave hospital.”

John’s eyes were already closed. “So that’s the plan,” he said in a slurred voice. “Live together, work together, sleep together?”

“That’s a brilliant plan,” Sherlock replied. He ran his hand through John’s hair again, just because he’d enjoyed doing that earlier and also because he could. “You’re tired,” he said. “Go to sleep.”

“Don’t leave,” John said.

Sherlock gave a low chuckle. “John,” he said, “Given a choice, I am unlikely to willingly be more than about two steps from you ever again.”

“Tha’s good,” John slurred.

Sherlock kissed him again, on the forehead this time. Then he moved off the bed and returned to the chair.

Surprisingly, John’s eyes cracked open again, just a bit. “Did I…did I tell you?”

“Hmm?” Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s.

“That I love you?”

“Yes. You told me.”

“Good.”

Sherlock spoke firmly, wanting to get through the fog that was settling over John. “John, you’ve been telling me that since primary school,” he said.

John smiled faintly and then he slept.

Sherlock settled into the chair and waited for John to wake up so that their new life together could begin. He could hardly wait.

***

**Author's Note:**

> While I am in London I hope to make great progress on the long rumored AU. Wish me luck with that!


End file.
